The Free Folk Come
by Hand of the King
Summary: Have you heard the tale of Raymund Redbeard? No? Aye, well listen up. During the age of your grandfather's grandfather, there was a Wildling named Raymund Redbeard who fancied himself the King-Beyond-the-Wall. He gathered every Wildling beyond the wall he could find, and you know what he did? He marched south, to take back what once was theirs - the story of a King and his people.
1. Prologue

_**AN : This is a prequel, a long time before the main story begins. This universe belongs to George R.R. Martin and though he is against Fan Fiction of the series, I mean no harm in my actions. Thank you and enjoy. **_

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A pair of large brown garrons trotted through the mess of snow and slush, their riders in discourse after what they had endured. A blistering wind reddened their faces till they were raw and numb, and the blood froze to their skin as it seeped from their wounds. One had lost three fingers, while Garth suffered a sword to the back of his calf. Their heavy black cloths were wet and grisly with their blood and the blood of their enemies – the Wildlings.

"We're nearly there," Garth said. He wore fine black armor, scaled and hammered by the smith from the keep he was born in, a thick handled bastard sword was strapped over his back. He was from House Coldwater, of the Vale, and had come to the Watch seeking some kind of glory. "Maester Jared will tend to our wounds, and the Lord Commander will be told what we saw. What our brothers died for."

The one with three fingers missing, dressed in rags and quite notable by the grim scar that ran down his forehead and over his eye, was called Red Pate. Unlike Garth, he was not highborn. Pate was some whores whelp, charged with murdering a merchant and his family, and sent to the Wall. He despised the cold, and now he was close to dying for a cause he did not support. "That bastard cook better have something warm to put in my belly," he rubbed his stomach through his furs. "I can nearly see my bones underneath here."

Winds churned overhead and they slowed, peeking all around with looks of fear in their eyes. "Those fucking savages," growled Red Pate. Garth smiled at how ironic it sounded coming from a man who killed a merchant who supposedly crossed him, but now wasn't a time to start nit picking with the oaf. "They're playing with us. Treating us like game. I ain't no fucking bear."

"Don't count that out yet Pate," Garth said. "Now keep quiet."

The trees stopped moving as the wind died down. They kept moving.

Garth drew his knife though, in case the Wildlings did spring at them, or if Pate decided to act up again. The entire trip was filled with him fighting with Garth or one of the others. When the Wildlings attacked them, Pate watched as Black Loren was cut down, and Garth watched him laugh heartily before continuing the fight. The Lord Commander would see to it that he was punished.

The snow had stopped falling at dawn, or else they'd have to try and distinguish what was a tree, and what wasn't. Garth had hoped he wouldn't go mad, attacking tree after tree, claiming the Wildlings were going to kill him. He knew good men who went mad for lesser things.

Back home on Coldwater Burn, his family's man-at-arms went mad thinking that the Mountain Clans were going to come for him and rape his wife and daughter, then feed him to the goats. He had to be tied down for a week, until he somewhat regained composure. Though he acted normal, Garth remembered that look in his eyes. _He was never the same_, Garth recalled.

"They're gathering, y'know that?" Red Pate spat a wad of phlegm before he spoke. "Those cretins are gathering up. Something big is coming our way, lad."

"You sound like a Stark," Garth said jokingly. "Winter is coming, aye?"

Red Pate swore under his breath and gritted his teeth, "Fuck you, and fuck the noble whore who whelped you out," he rode forward, as if they weren't going in the same direction and he could avoid Garth's company.

"That whore is my mother, Pate," Garth gripped the handle of his bastard sword. "And it'd be wise to not insult her, for she is my dear mother. I have the decency to respect your mother Pate. When and if I ever fucked her, I probably tipped generously."

Garth leaped from his garron and drew his sword with his single good hand, "You noble bastard. You think you're so much better then the rest of us, when you're nothing. House Coldwater, heh! Cold piss, more like it. That's all you spew."

With a flick of his wrist, Garth threw his knife, catching Red Pate in the shoulder. He staggered back, barely ready to defend as Garth leaped from his own horse and drew his sword. It was big, required two-hands, and could cut through Pate like a fish.

Red Pate lifted his sword and the two clashed, but his ass fell into the snow hard and he moved to wiggle away from the next blow. "What will you say to the Lord Commander? That you forced me to draw your sword and you put me down like a dog, ya' fucking cretin."

"No," Garth said as he raised up his sword, his eyes locked with Pate who was frozen in fear. "Lord Commander, it was the Wildlings," he brought his sword down and caught Pate in the leg, just above the knee. There was a crunch and blood poured out like a wine cup that was knocked over. "They took Black Loren, and Sam Hill, Lyonel, and even Pate. I saw them all die before my own eyes," Garth fell to a knee and grabbed Pate by the throat. He squeezed tight and watched as the man screamed and writhed, gasping for air that just wouldn't come. "And now your watch has ended."

Red Pate was dead.

Garth rose, his pants and furs soaked in Pate's blood. His body was already frigid and starting to freeze, a look of fear in his eyes as he died, his mouth parted to scream one last thing. What were his last thoughts, Garth wondered.

"Well look what we have here," a voice came from behind him. "Crows killing crows."

But before Garth could lift his sword, an arrow busted through his chest, and blood dribbled out, forcing him to his knee beside Pate.

"I wish you all were like that, you'd make our job easier," the Wildling said. There were a dozen of them, all in furs that were the color of a snowy mountain. Some wielded ax, others carried scythes, and one woman had a long crooked spear. "Shall we play with this one?"

"Raymun gave us strict orders," another said. "Kill all Crows."

"Raymun?" Garth gasped.

"Aye, crow. Haven't you lot heard? Raymund Redbeard, calls himself the King-Beyond-the-Wall. And he's coming for you crows first. But for now, what did you say to that other crow before you killed him? And now your watch has ended?"

But before Garth could respond, an arrow pierced his left eye and he slumped over dead.


	2. Grigg I

The only company that Grigg had was the sound of water trickling through rocks and mounds of slush, and dribbling down into the icy cold pond below. The blood red leaves of the weirwood tree surrounded him like a thick blanket, and the face carved into the tree watched over him from behind. He felt safe in the weirwood, as all Free Folk felt safe among their Gods.

Grigg the Trickster, his people called him, for he was sly and cunning like a fox and as nimble as the Children of the Forest from the legends. In his youth, he stole many women, and now he was a man of twenty-and-seven, tempered for battle. Or in his case, for an invasion.

He looked to the skies and closed his eyes as a breeze took him by surprise. _The Gods are speaking to me_, he thought. He listened but could not decipher any message among the northern winds, perhaps he was hearing things. "Grigg?" a deep, thrum of a voice came from behind him.

There stood Raymun Redbeard, a hulking man, with a hulking aura. "Did I miss the feast? I was hoping for a nice cut of the stag, if that fat oaf Borrin didn't get to it first," he saw a look of remorse in Raymun's blue eyes. "Or is something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. I just needed to breathe," Raymun said gruffly. He made his way across the wet, dew-ridden grass, and knelt beside the trickle of water. Wiping away some of the slush, he let the water flow down into the pool. He stared into the pool of water, stroking his long red whiskers with great distress. "We're amassing quite an army here, Grigg. The realm will not be prepared for us."

"No, they won't. We'll strike them hard and fast. We'll take their wives and foster their children and it'll all be ours once again," Grigg said. "But we can't do that without you in a sane state of mind."

"I am sane, Trickster."

Grigg shook his head, _his mind is clouded. "_You keep lying to yourself. It doesn't change what I said." _Is it that whore_ _again, the one he raved about_?

Raymun Redbeard smiled, "I just saw Thalia again."

_I was right_. "And what did she say?"

"She wouldn't talk to me," Raymun said. "And when I wouldn't leave, she pushed me. I left a nice big piece of meat outside of her tent. Hopefully she will take that as an apology."

Grigg felt like hurling. "You are the one who will lead us Raymun. You mustn't let a woman manipulate you like this. You do not leave her gifts as an apology, you take her as yours," Grigg said. He slid a bone dagger from its sheath and washed some blood off in the waters. A mixture of blood and water trickled down into the pool that Raymun had cleared up. "The others will not follow you, if you do not act with strength."

"I act how I please, Grigg. And Thalia will come around, do not worry. But we have other things to discuss. The Ice-river clans have joined us now, although they were bound to come around eventually. This morning a messenger came. A messenger from Thenn."

Grigg perked up. "So the Thenn want to align with us? This is what we needed Raymun, the final push towards initiating the invasion. What did the messenger say?"  
"He said '_The Magnar of Thenn will not bend the knee, but he will aid the self-proclaimed King-Beyond-the-Wall in his efforts. The Thenn march two days behind me. The Magnar asks to have a seat beside the King-Beyond-the-Wall in all of his decisions, and any women of his choosing.'" _Raymun repeated the message in the Old Tongue.

"We must deal with the one called Kygyrn, he's the Magnar of Thenn now. Good. That is better then not having the Thenns beside us."

"Perhaps, but Kygyrn is not an easy man to please," Raymun said. "What if we fail. What if the Nights Watch thwart us before we even get near the Wall."

Grigg smiled. "Then we go out killing every single crow we can."

The words did not settle Raymun, but they made him feel better, they resolved his doubts and frustrations temporarily. "You are a good friend, Grigg. A better friend then I have known for some time. I've got a gift for you."

The free folk were never partial towards the idea of gift giving, which made Grigg uncertain of what Raymun meant. He had seen one man give a gift before, it was a gift of a knife in the neck, to another man who slept with his wife.

Raymun pulled out a piece of cloth. There was something wrapped inside of it.

Grigg took the cloth wrapping and unraveled what lay inside. "I claimed it from a crow many years ago. He cried like a baby. He must've been quite highborn to have something so rich," Grigg touched the steel. It had ripples of red melded with the dark hue of the steel. "They call it dragonsteel, down south."

A dragonsteel dagger, so fine that it could cut a man to ribbons. "Know that should the need arise, I will die for you, Raymun Redbeard."

"The moment you accept this gift, I wouldn't expect any less of you, Grigg the Trickster. Now come, let us feast."

Raymun left, leaving Grigg alone with the weirwood. Another breeze came, blowing his hair back,and that time he swore he heard them speak. _Protect him, Trickster, for he is the last protector of the Old Ways_.

"_It will be hard to protect him,_" Grigg smirked. "_When it is me who will eventually kill him_."


End file.
